


We Count Our Dead

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Consent Issues, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Pining, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 16:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13791801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: Alexander dies on a sweltering, sunny Thursday in July.





	We Count Our Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/gifts), [Face_of_Poe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/gifts).



Alexander dies on a sweltering, sunny Thursday in July.

Washington still can’t understand it. Can’t comprehend it. Can’t reconcile the memory of Alexander grinning as he slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, listening to Washington’s admonition to leave _early,_ for once, waving absently as he called over his shoulder, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone, sir!” while Washington chuckled, because Alexander had a droll sense of humor, and then—

Gilbert bursting into the office without knocking, eyes frantic and face twisted in fear, gasping, “There’s been an accident!”, and then—

Washington hurrying after him, dread pooling in his stomach, spreading into his chest, pushing past Gilbert at the front doors and stepping outside into the brightness and then—

Alexander was—

 _Only he would have the gall to get bloodstains on my office steps,_ Washington thinks hysterically, before attempting to drown the the image with a healthy dose of the strongest whiskey he’d been able to find. When the steady, predictable plateau of his life crumbled under his feet that Thursday and left him aimless, tumbling in a dark freefall, the “what ifs” fell into the endless chasm with him.

_What if I hadn’t sent him home early? What if I had taken the time to say goodbye to him? What if I left the office when he did? What if I had told him..._

It’s useless. Worse than that, the regret is a paralyzing kind of madness. But here, in the privacy of his home, he slumps on his couch _(that Alexander picked out_ _,_ his traitorous mind reminds him, and he never had a piece of furniture so comfortable in his life because Alexander _always_ knew instinctively what he needed before he could even voice it), and peels off the brittle facade he has to wear to work every day. Lets himself sink into the regret, too deep in the alcohol induced haze of grief and pain to pull himself out.

How might their lives have turned out if he had confessed? Not just his numerous fantasies of threading his hands through Alexander’s hair, tasting the warmth of his unceasing mouth, making those dark eyes frenzied with need… but his affection for Alexander’s brilliance, his drive, his devotion, and even his brashness.

(More than mere affection. His _love.)_

If he had swallowed his worries and doubts and bared himself to Alexander, ready and willing to accept whatever judgment his boy might have passed, then maybe…

Instead, he was a fool. A coward.

He takes another drink of whiskey. Closes his eyes against the sluggish throb of his pulse, the fogginess in his vision that threatens to consume him, because the entire house, even Washington himself, is overlaid with echoes of Alexander, his touch and imprint _everywhere,_ and Washington never took the chance—

_“Sir?”_

Washington chokes on the mouthful, spilling half of it on his shirt, the rest stuck, acrid, in his throat. He nearly coughs up his lungs, struggling to breathe again, but still manages a stunned, stammering, “W-what—”

When he wrenches his eyes open, it’s Alexander in front of him. Alexander, pale and marred with familiar wounds and vibrant red bloodstains, a scowl on his expressive face.

Washington drops the bottle; it hits the hardwood but doesn’t shatter, amber liquid sloshing onto the floor. He rubs his eyes. Blinks. Rubs them again. His breaths are shallow; a chill creeps up his spine. He wants to vomit. He wants to weep. He wants to reach out but his arms are suddenly leaden weights at his sides.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Alexander demands, incredulous.

“I… Alexander,” he rasps; he shakes his head in a fruitless attempt to clear it. “Are you… what…”

Alexander stalks closer. Near enough for Washington to touch, if he could. “This shit will _kill you._ Or is that your intention?”

“I don’t care,” he admits, more honest with Alexander in death than he ever was in life. “I don’t care about _anything._ Not since you—”

“Don’t _say_ that.”

Washington raises his hands, fumbling and uncoordinated, drawing on every bit of strength he can manage. For a moment they stay suspended, searching— but then Alexander takes them in his own, clammy skin mottled with purpling bruises.

He feels so solid. So real. _“Alexander,”_ he groans, anguish and relief flooding through him stronger than any whiskey.

He tries to stagger toward his boy but his legs refuse to work, either; he makes it a step before stumbling, Alexander failing to steady him before his knees hit the floor with a sickening pop. Alexander attempts to tug him upright but a wave of dizziness knocks Washington off balance and pitches them forward, Alexander on his back, Washington’s weight crushing on his chest— or, it would be if he were actually—

 _(No._ He refuses to think it.)

Washington shudders at the feeling of Alexander pinned beneath him because this is so good and _right,_ a sense of contentment cresting above the rush of blood to his head, overwhelming and heady.

Alexander stares at him, his eyes raging in a maelstrom of emotion. A cold tendril of guilt twines under Washington’s skin; this… loss of control was exactly what he feared most, what he guarded against— but it’s not fear, Washington realizes belatedly, after his eyes focus on Alexander’s face, still beautiful under the open wounds. It’s desperation. “You have to let me go,” Alexander begs plaintively, hands fisted in his shirt. _“Please._ Let me go.”

 _“Never,”_ Washington snarls. He knows intimately that path of reservation and hesitation, has already walked that path— and he’ll be damned if he inherits another moment immobilized by blind resignation. “I waited too long. I won’t wait any longer.”

He moves forward and takes Alexander’s split, bloody lip in an artless kiss, and it’s pain and grief and hurt and every memory he’s ever hoarded of the press of his hand on Alexander’s back and every gaze Alexander sent his way and his heart kicks in his chest because this—

This is bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> The part two challenge fic for the lovely face_of_poe and dreamlittleyo! The rules: 1000 words, four prompt words included in the fill. (I received echo, gall, plateau, and inheritance from dreamlittleyo.) ALSO VERY FUN :D
> 
> And fun fact! When I originally picked a date for Hamilton's death, I chose a Thursday in July at random. without looking anything up. Guess what day of the week July 12, 1804 falls on. ;)
> 
> (You can also find me on [tumblr](http://aidennestorm.tumblr.com/)!)


End file.
